


Foiled Again

by Delancey654



Category: Sylvester or the Wicked Uncle - Georgette Heyer, The Foundling - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Gen, Swithin Liversedge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delancey654/pseuds/Delancey654
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Orde, having acquired some town bronze, encounters one of Heyer's most memorable villains</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foiled Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melandra/gifts).



When the fresh-faced young man walked into one of London's more notorious gaming hells unaccompanied, certain of the regulars stiffened in anticipation, perceiving an easy mark to be relieved of at least some of the guineas in his pockets. The fellow's honest face, solid build and (most of all) his provincial tailoring screamed "country squire" or, as translated by the rogues and hardened gamblers who frequented this hell, "pigeon to be plucked."

Swithin Liversedge, though arguably the greatest rogue of the lot, was too deflated by earlier events to do anything beyond raising his eyes from his mug and mentally shaking his head at the stupidity of the young. The mental shaking grew more pronounced as the young man took a seat next to him (did he have _no_ sense of self-preservation?), manifesting itself as a short jerk of Liversedge's head in the young man's direction in what could perhaps, by the most optimistic, be taken as a greeting. Inevitably, the youngster took it as such.

"Good evening, sir. Quite a pleasant autumn day, don't you think?" Swithin stifled a groan of despair, managing instead a grunt of acknowledgment. Of course the young man would prove to be the chatty type and on the weather, of all inanities. So far as he was concerned, it was a most unpleasant autumn day, for it had seen one of Liversedge's most promising schemes come to naught.

A few short months ago, he had succeeded in kidnapping the Duke of Sale and been within a day or two of collecting a ransom of tens of thousands of pounds, enough to buy a snug little property and set himself up as a gentleman of leisure, until that unprepossessing but ingenious nobleman had foiled his plans. The five thousand pounds that Sale had given him, on the condition that Liversedge leave the country, was a mere _bagatelle_ in comparison. Besides, upon reflection, Liversedge had decided that he did not wish to risk his new-found capital to establish a gaming house in Strasbourg. So far as he was concerned, the House of Bourbon and entire French people had shown themselves to be a poor investment risk for any (dis)honest Englishman. The abduction of English aristocrats was a much more lucrative proposition. However, Swithin was too much of a downy one to make the mistake of abducting another duke, particularly after puniest and meekest ducal specimen he knew of had managed to overpower and outwit his captors. A duchess, however, was quite another matter. Not, of course, a young one. Liversedge would not have the faintest breath of scandal attached to a lady's fair name on his account. But London was replete with dowager duchesses of sufficiently advanced years, such that not even the most evil-minded (which described much of the _ton_ ) could place a prurient construction on an abduction.

Liversedge had been discouraged, however, by his preliminary survey of wealthy dowagers. Most never appeared in public without the accompaniment of at least two stout footmen (and sometimes four or six, depending on the bulk of the lady in question and whether she employed a sedan chair) and all were well-armed with canes and razor-sharp tongues. It did not take a person of his unusually powerful intelligence to divine that kidnapping one of these harridans could go disastrously wrong, most likely with himself left in possession of a turbaned termagant and no ransom. He had then become aware of a promising candidate - an older duchess, not a dowager - recently returned to London after some time spent abroad. After decades of a surprisingly happy marriage, there was no doubt that her old rip of a husband would pay handsomely for her safe return. Her grace, moreover, had an endearing habit of walking her dog unaccompanied in the park in the early morning. Swithin had successfully approached her there not three days previously under the pretext of asking for directions. Other than the dog (rather than the usual pug or yapping lapdog, she had an intelligent-looking collie, who had eyed him with deepest suspicion), he had perceived no impediment to his plan.

Still, Liversedge had taken the precautionary step of cultivating a former retainer for information, under the pretext of applying for a position within the household. Since the man had been dismissed for habitual drunkeness, it had required only the price of a few drinks and a pub lunch to loosen his tongue. Swithin groaned involuntarily at the memory of that disastrous lunch, which had turned all his hopes to ashes. The young man occupying the stool next to his looked at him in some concern, but Liversedge, sunk in misery, did not even notice.

He had presented himself at the lunch as a former majordomo to the Duke of Sale (perfectly true, since he had managed the little duke's residence outside of Bath to perfection for several weeks), displaced by Sale's recent marriage. "Sale is the most amiable and good-natured master you can imagine, but his wife ..." Liversedge allowed his voice to trail off, cheerfully slandering the former Lady Harriet Presteigne by implication. The former servant had been all too eager to pick up the gauge and gossip about his former employers. "If it's amiability and a good nature you're seeking, this ain't the right household. His Grace has more temper and pride than Lucifer himself."

"Of course, he is getting up there in years..." Liversedge had suggested, hoping to elicit information that the old duke was in or rapidly approaching his dotage.

The groom snorted. "His Grace is as sharp as a tack and has a decade or more left in him. Heaven won't take him after the life he's led and the devil in hell is afeared he'll take over."

That had opened the door nicely to a crucial line of inquiry. "Ah, yes," Swithin said, in a reminiscing tone. "I recall hearing that the duke was quite the one for dueling in his younger days."

The former servant, after another hearty gulp of ale, answered with a perverse pride. "Aye, he shot his man a half-dozen times or so. Killed at least a couple, too."

Swithin swallowed hard. "He hasn't shot anyone in last forty years, though, has he?"

"Give or take," the man confirmed, in a mildly disappointed tone. Swithin's relief was quelled as the groom continued. "His Grace keeps in practice still. Goes to Manton's most days he's in town. He may not be able to pick out a playing card from acrost the room these days, but he'll still hit the card itself nine times out of ten."

Swithin had shuddered slightly as he refilled the man's glass. A playing card was the same size as a man's heart. Still, he reminded himself firmly that there was no risk to himself of getting within twenty pace of his Grace. It was precisely for reasons like this that he had decided to forego the kidnapping of dukes in favor of duchesses.

"That must be a trial for her Grace," he noted sympathetically. "The ladies always despise firearms."

"You're out there," the groom retorted, taking another swig. "Her Grace ain't allowed at Manton's, but she'll shoot at targets in the country and usually hits them, too. Aye," he added with a tipsy grin, "she even shot her husband once."

Notwithstanding his deep-rooted cynicism about human nature, Swithin was genuinely appalled. To think that the smiling, plump lady who had spoken with him so politely in the park had killed her first husband for the sake of a title - truly, she deserved to be kidnapped. "You don't mean to say that she is a murderess?"

"Oh, no," the man hastened to reassure him. "Not she - it was just a flesh wound."

Horrified understanding dawned on Liversedge. "Are you telling me she shot the duke?"

"So she did." The man took another deep swig to refresh himself. "Course, he weren't the duke then, nor were they married. He tried to take liberties and she was having none of that."

Swithin had scotched his plan to kidnap her Grace at that moment. However, towards the close of the luncheon, his natural buoyancy had reasserted itself, and he decided it was quite plausible that his luncheon companion had been dismissed for insanity as well as drunkeness. His wild tale about the duchess could not possibly have any basis in reality. At the very least, first-hand observation was warranted prior to abandoning such a well-laid plan. So Swithin had partaken himself to the park, to observe the Quality disporting themselves between the fashionable hour of five and six. Swithin, as a matter of egalitarian principle, bowed his head to no man. Nonetheless, he found himself involuntarily dipping his chin and looking at the ground when the duke's gaze flicked over him, in the instinctive response of a weasel espied by a predatory hawk, but not before noticing the unmistakable outlines of a pistol in her Grace's ermine muff. After evaluating the duke and duchess with his own eyes, in light of the intelligence so recently received, Swithin had tugged his thinning locks in consternation, realizing that weeks of preparation had been wasted. Quite simply, he would have to find someone else to abduct.

In the interim, he had taken himself to one of his favorite establishments (because it was frequented by young men with more wealth than sense) to drown his sorrows. Really, it was more than flesh and blood could bear...

"Flesh and blood, sir?" The young man seated next to him proffered a steaming mug. "You look like you could use something to warm you."

Swithin accepted with gratitude. It was heartening to realize there was some decency left in the world, because decent people were so easy to fleece. "Thank you, young sir. I have indeed had a most trying day. Swithin Liversedge, at your service." He executed a small, courtly bow.

The young man extended his hand. "Tom Orde. A pleasure to meet you."

Liversedge took it and shook vigorously. "What brings you here, Mr. Orde?"

"I'm in London for a few weeks, to see the sights and stand buff at a good friend's wedding. I'm to meet a party here tonight, but I arrived a trifle early."

"Ah." There was a wealth of satisfaction in the single syllable. A country coney, indeed, Swithin thought to himself. "Perhaps you would care to while away the time with a hand or two of cards?"

The young man smiled pleasantly, candid grey eyes meeting his own. "Certainly, sir."

Privately, Tom had thought he would never ask, and was on the verge of doubting the latest worldly wisdom propounded over breakfast by his London host, Sylvester Rayne, the Duke of Salford. Tom had not been his usual cheerful self at the first meal of the day, due to the excesses of the previous evening and the morning post, which had brought him a thundering scold from his father. In that letter, the Squire reminded him that his esteemed parent was not made of the new-fangled pounds sterling or any other form of currency, and that Tom therefore should not draw the bustle so readily while in London. Since Tom had done just that the night before, and had a hefty tailor's bill in the same post, that parental communication had only exacerbated an already splitting headache.

Salford, who had appeared remarkably calm for a man whose wedding was a mere three days hence, had lent a sympathetic ear to his young friend's plight and then offered some excellent advice. "Why don't you turn to gambling to raise the ready?"

Tom was surprised, to say the least. Salford was a careful steward of his own estates, not a gamester. He had also frequently expressed his scathing opinion of the young bloods - and not so young - who squandered fortunes at cards and dice. Aware of Tom's surprise, Salford explained with a cynical smile that emphasized his dark, slanting eyebrows. "You, my dear Tom, look to be the unwary mark that every scoundrel dreams of. All that you need to do is walk into a hell and play a single hand of cards with a any sharp in the place."

Tom was still puzzled. "I fail to see how that will help my finances, Salford."

"It will help because you aren't truly a flat. You have no taste for gambling, a hard head for alcohol, and enough common sense to quit after a hand or two, when you're still ahead. As a matter of form, any banditti will let his mark win at the outset."

Tom was intrigued, but slightly appalled - his typical reaction to most of Salford's candid observations and advice. "But isn't that cheating?"

"Not in the slightest," Salford smiled at his simplicity. "You are playing an honest game of cards and simply calling a halt at your convenience."

Tom, now convinced, thought it was at least worth a try. "How shall I recognize a sharp, Salford?"

"Most likely, he'll recognize you." Salford's tone was dry. "However, you merely need look for the most respectable-looking gent in the hell and strike up a conversation. The best rogues look like retired butlers, or schoolmasters, or even parsons."

So Tom, that very evening, had sought to put his host's suggestion into play. Wearing one of his older coats (not the London finery he had yet to pay for), Tom had arrived at the appointed rendezvous for the evening before any of his friends and taken a seat next to a middle-aged gentleman who exuded respectability. At first, Tom doubted Salford's perspicacity, for the man he was seated next to was in such a brown study that he barely seemed to notice Tom's presence. However, the gentleman had eventually come out of the doldrums and, if Tom was not mistaken, there had been a predatory glint in his eyes when Swithin Liversedge (as he called himself) proposed a game of cards. Certainly Tom was ahead by several guineas when his friends arrived and he excused himself from further play, turning the game over without compunction to Corney Fancot, who had complete control over his own fortune and more than enough money to withstand a night's losses. Tom was still not entirely certain that his opponent was a sharp, but saw no reason to risk his winnings to determine whether that was the case.

Swithin had been mildly puzzled as well. Young Orde had been a perfectly competent card player, but had patently lacked the fervor of a gamester or even the naïve enthusiasm of the typical young man. And, if Liversedge had not been mistaken, he had caught a few subtly measuring looks from Orde entirely out of keeping with his purported character as an innocent fresh from the country. Liversedge was not quite convinced the young man was a rounder, but he certainly made no demur when Orde begged his pardon to cut short their game and join his newly-arrived friends. There were other fish in the sea, much easier to reel in - such as the hapless fellow who had taken Tom's place.

Still, Swithin was intrigued enough by young Orde to discreetly eavesdrop even as he set about systematically bankrupting his new opponent. He also could not help but notice that Tom Orde was keeping rather fast and exalted company for a country squire's son, recently arrived in London, and wondered who was his host while in town. His attention was well-rewarded: "How is Salford holding up? Is he ready to make a spectacle of himself in Hanover Square for our entertainment?" The jocular inquiry came from a fair-haired young lordling who Swithin recognized as heir to the Earl of Pevensey. Swithin's ears pricked up. Salford was an incredibly wealthy duke, not yet thirty, whose impending nuptials to the eldest daughter of Lord Marlowe were projected to be the social highlight of the Little Season.

Tom answered with a grin. "Salford is cool and collected as always, even with chaos swirling around him. He's prepared to dazzle us all with stunning new morning dress from Weston."

"Salford's household in chaos? I can't believe a mere wedding would upset things to that extent," scoffed a handsome, broad-shouldered Corinthian.

Tom's grin broadened. "It's not his household, precisely, and not just the wedding. I take it you haven't made the acquaintance of young master Edmund?"

Most of his friends shook their heads, but Marmaduke Fakenham laughed. "Oh, haven't I! I nearly thrashed the young rascal for swapping my tooth powder for laundry soap the last time I visited Chance."

"Edmund is Salford's nephew and his ward as well," Tom explained to his listeners, "but he has been living with his mother and her new husband in town, at least until Salford returns from his honeymoon." There were some eye rolls at the mention of Lady Ianthe's new husband - Sir Nugent Fotherby was a well-known figure of fun for his extravagantly poor sense of fashion. His wife, notable for her blonde beauty and lack of common sense, was the widow of Salford's younger brother. "Well, young Edmund's latest stunt was to try and escape Fotherby House by scaling the garden walls like a monkey, with his tutor and the butler and the footmen and Sir Nugent himself all clambering after him." Tom and his companions laughed at the image, but Tom sobered slightly as he continued. "Poor Reverend Leyburn fell and broke his leg in the attempt, so now Edmund is without a keeper and Salford needs to rely on Sir Nugent and Lady Ianthe to engage a new tutor." Tom made a face at the prospect.

"Oh, well," said Marmaduke's cousin Ferdy consolingly. "I'm sure they will select a perfect gudgeon, but you can't really except the little chap to learn anything before he heads off to Eton. And Salford will be back from Italy in a couple of months, so no harm done."

A dazzling vista of possibilities appeared before Swithin's eyes. Here was his opportunity! Salford would pay well for the safe return of his nephew and heir; if not, Sir Nugent could be bled freely. And the kidnapping itself would be child's play, since young Edmund would apparently welcome the chance to run off from his mother and stepfather. The only challenge would be to insert himself in the household, but Liversedge knew he had the respectable appearance of a tutor and the means at hand (through stationary and a seal purloined during his brief service to the Duke of Sale) to forge an impressive set of credentials for himself. With barely contained excitement, he finished his game, collected the large number of guineas he was owed, and set off for his London lodging and the pleasurable task of composing a glowing letter of reference for himself.

* * *

The following morning, Tom took his usual ride in the park with Phoebe Marlowe, his childhood friend and Salford's betrothed. She was in good spirits and, like Salford, apparently unruffled by the impending wedding.

In the early days following announcement of the engagement, shortly after they had all returned from their adventures in France, Tom had supported Phoebe through numerous tearful bouts occasioned by her stepmother's heavy-handed efforts to arrange the wedding ceremony to her own questionable taste. As a sporting young gentleman of twenty, Tom was not a natural confidante for a bride-to-be on questions relating to floral arrangements or the most flattering gown, but he had made a game effort, since Phoebe was like a sister to him. Moreover, her own half-sisters could not be relied upon: Susan was bumptious, Eliza was a tale-bearer, and Mary and Kitty, though good eggs, were too young to provide much support.

Looking at Phoebe now, smiling as she urged Firefly into a canter, Tom congratulated himself once more on the stroke of genius that had led him to suggest that perhaps Phoebe's grandmother, Lady Ingham, might wish to take a more active role in the wedding planning. Lady Ingham might claim the refuge of ill-health when it suited her to do so, but in reality, she was a spry old lady renowned for her astringent wit and sense of style. Unlike Phoebe, who dreaded confrontation, Lady Ingham's battles with Lady Marlowe (from which the former inevitably emerged victorious) acted like a tonic on her system. Lady Ingham had been delighted to be "consulted" about the wedding, and Tom had little doubt that such consultation would result in every aspect of the celebration, excluding only Salford's tailoring, bearing her inimitable stamp.

The smile was wiped off Phoebe's face as she observed another young lady trotting towards them from across the park. Tom and Phoebe both watched Miss Wield, the toast of the Little Season, approach with close attention, Tom with frank admiration and Phoebe with a critical eye.

It was an open secret that Miss Wield aspired to leverage her undeniable beauty and substantial mercantile fortune to marry into the peerage. Phoebe was too fair-minded to disparage Miss Wield for an ambition held by many, if not most young ladies, but she could not forgive Miss Wield's unsubtle efforts to capture Salford's interest before focusing her sights on an elderly marquis. Tom strongly suspected that a character bearing a striking resemblance to Miss Wield would play a prominent and unflattering role in Phoebe's next novel, and could only hope that Salford would prove successful in dissuading Phoebe from publication.

Miss Wield, who was clever enough to both perceive Phoebe's dislike and wish to ameliorate it, was warmly cordial but careful not to linger. After wishing Phoebe well, Miss Wield briefly inquired whether either Phoebe or Tom would be present at Almack's that evening. Tom volunteered that he would be in attendance and solicited a dance, which Miss Wield promised to grant him. Her fluttering eyelashes and coy smile hinted at future favors and Tom watched her ride away with a sense of pleasurable anticipation, appreciating how her aquamarine riding habit set off her figure and coloring to perfection and imagining what she would look like divested of it.

"Smells of the shop," Phoebe muttered under her breath, as Tom hushed her, absent-mindedly and with a brotherly prerogative. "Don't be a snob, Phoebe. It's not worthy of you."

Phoebe flushed. "You're right of course, but after the way she set her cap at Sylvester - "

Tom was quick to reassure her. "Now you're being a goose. In fact, he told me that -" He shut his mouth with a snap, belatedly realizing that Salford's unvarnished opinion of Miss Wield was not suitable for Phoebe's ears.

Phoebe's intelligent grey eyes bored into his and her voice was dangerously quiet. "Just what did Sylvester tell you, Tom?"

Several weeks in Salford's urbane company had left their mark. While Tom previously would have been unable to dissemble to his best friend, he met Phoebe's eyes and spoke unblushingly. "Just that he can tell gold from dross."

Tom reflected, as Phoebe flushed with pleasure, that he hadn't really lied, but had merely omitted some extraneous commentary. As a matter of fact, Sylvester had coolly informed him that Miss Wield had the soul, as well as the face and body, of a courtesan and Tom would have an excellent chance of getting her onto her back once she was safely wedded to some doddering old fool. This conversation had taken place on their way home from Almack's following the occasion when Tom and Salford had first met Miss Wield. Tom, in the throes of an infatuation brought on by a single country dance, had been hot in Miss Wield's defense.

Salford, who had been privileged to waltz with Miss Wield, had been unmoved. "My dear Tom, can you believe the little minx spent the entire dance cooing sympathetically about marriages arranged between families and making subtle little digs at Phoebe? She certainly hasn't taken my Sparrow's measure!"

Sylvester had then entertained himself for the remainder of the carriage ride (and further incensed Tom) by predicting Miss Wield's plan of attack and odds of success with respect to various unmarried males of rank with what had proved to be an almost uncanny omniscience. Salford's accuracy in anticipating Miss Wield's behavior over the ensuing weeks had effectively dampened Tom's outrage, if not his ardour, and now he merely hoped that Salford's prediction about his own chances of success with Miss Wield once she successfully wed her marquis would be prove to be equally correct.

"Tom, are you listening?" Phoebe's voice broke into his thoughts.

He smiled at her sheepishly. "Pardon me, I was wool-gathering for a moment."

"Thinking about dross?" Phoebe sounded more amused than annoyed. It was a shrewd hit, but Tom saw no reason to admit that, preferring to change the subject.

"What were you saying, Phoebe?" Phoebe gave him a knowing look, but did not press.

"Only that Edmund was telling me how much he wishes you would take him to the circus. I think he's feeling a touch lonely in London. Lady Ianthe has been keeping to her couch in expectation of an interesting event in the spring, so Edmund has been left to his own devices."

Tom's ready sympathies were stirred. "Poor little chap. I'll invite him for tomorrow."

After escorting Phoebe back to her father's house, and with his friend's thanks and a reminder still fresh in his mind, Tom dashed off a quick note to Sir Nugent and Lady Ianthe, begging their permission to escort Edmund to Astley's Amphitheatre on the following day. The footman returned in short order with a gracious note of acceptance, and subsequently Tom departed for his evening's entertainment with a warm feeling of self-satisfaction based on his impending good deed and a sense of relief that this evening's only destination was Almack's, where the patronesses served nothing stronger than orgeat. Moderation was the order of the evening, as the management of Edmund required a clear head as well as a firm hand.

* * *

When Tom arrived at Fotherby House at the appointed hour the next afternoon, the butler ushered him into a parlour, where Edmund and his stepfather were just finishing their tea. Lady Ianthe, consistent with Phoebe's report of her delicate condition, was nowhere to be seen. Edmund and Sir Nugent both greeted him warmly, the former in eager anticipation of a high treat and the latter having long since forgiven Tom for calling him a damned nail, but it was the third person in the room, presumably Edmund's new tutor, who caused Tom's eyes to widen in shock.

The middle-aged fellow whom he had played cards against two nights before rose to wring his hand with enthusiasm. "My dear young sir," he said with aplomb, "I am most delighted to see you again."

Liversedge turned to his employer. "Sir Nugent, this fine young man protected me from any manner of scoundrels and rapscallions when I mistakenly ventured into the Yellow Dog on my first night in London." Liversedge shook his head with self-deprecating humor. "I was to meet an old school friend at the Yellow Hound, but forgot my notebook and then misremembered the pub's name."

The expression of disapproving surprise on Sir Nugent's face dissolved into a grin at the tutor's error. The Yellow Hound was a pub near Chancery Lane, frequented by respectable solicitors and barristers, a mile or so removed from the Yellow Dog in terms of geography but a world away in all other respects. Swithin smiled primly at his employer. "I have since been informed that the Yellow Dog is no place for an old scholar like me and that I was fortunate indeed to find an honest man to play cards with in that establishment."

Turning his attention back to Tom, Liversedge gave his hand one final pump before releasing him. "I am indebted to you, sir, not only for your honest play but also for putting me in the way of my new position. If I can ever serve you, in any way, I would be honored to do so." Tom, overwhelmed at this display of gratitude, murmured something unintelligible.

Edmund then interjected himself into the conversation. "Hiya, Tom, can we bing now? I want to clap my ogles on the rum prancers and the buffers!"

Edmund's stepfather placidly buttered a scone, while his tutor continued to sip his tea. Tom stared at them, amazed that neither saw fit to comment on young Edmund's language.

Liversedge, perceiving Tom's look of astonishment, replaced his cup in its saucer and made haste to reassure him. "It is the latest pedagogical method, Mr. Orde. As I am sure you recall from your own school days, young boys positively relish utilizing the slang employed by the lower social orders. Rather than suppressing that natural instinct, I instruct my charges in thieves' cant, such that it loses its allure."

Nugent nodded in amiable agreement. "And when Edmund goes off to school, he'll be ahead of all his fellows."

"Indeed," Liversedge was quick to curry favor with his employer. "For my part, I should not be surprised to see greater utilization of this dialect in literature in the future. After all, it so aptly captures the rich tapestry that is London." Liversedge drew in a deep breath in order to expound on this theme at length, but Tom, with great presence of mind, grabbed young Edmund by the hand and made a hasty farewell.

Liversedge, smirking discreetly at young Orde's retreating back, thought with self-satisfaction that he had brushed through that rather well.

Tom hustled Edmund into a waiting hackney and heaved a sigh of relief as the driver cracked the whip and the carriage lurched away. For a horrid moment, he had felt transported back to Rugby, with one of his tutors prosing on and on. It was a relief to listen instead to Edmund prattling about the circus, how he hated the velvet and lace suit his mother was making him wear to the wedding tomorrow, and how capital it would be to travel on a steamboat.

The trip to Astley's proved to be a rousing success, with Edmund so enraptured that he caused no trouble whatsoever and Tom, at heart still an overgrown schoolboy, also thoroughly enjoying the outing. After he returned a sleepy Edmund to Nugent House that evening, Tom found himself yawning as he changed into evening dress to celebrate Salford's last night of bachelorhood and was thankful that his own role in tomorrow's wedding was limited to that of a spectator.

* * *

A mere fifteen hours later, Tom found himself waving his handkerchief and cheering with the rest of wedding guests as Salford and Phoebe, now her Grace, the Duchess of Salford, drove away from the wedding breakfast.

For the life of him, Tom could not have described Phoebe's dress, other than to say it was creamy and lacy, but the glowing smile on her face had been visible from even the back pews and made her look almost beautiful. Swallowing hard to clear an unexpected lump in his throat, Tom readily accepted an invitation from some of his and Salford's cronies to adjourn to a nearby pub to toast the newlyweds, feeling a curious need to drown his sorrows.

Most of the men were in high spirits, but Tom noticed a large, swarthy man of Salford's age, resplendent in the dress uniform of the Life Guards, who seemed almost as blue-deviled as he. He was not the only one to notice. Lord Gaywood, already in his cups, called over to the man. "Hey, Gideon, why are you scowling? Gilly will be back next week."

Tom's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Based on the unusual Christian name, he realized the Life Guard was Captain Gideon Ware, an old school friend mentioned by Salford on several occasions. Tom knew Captain Ware was first cousin to the Duke of Sale, who was currently on his honeymoon with Gaywood's sister. Tom had also heard hints that Gideon's relationship with Sale extended beyond cousinly affection, a rumor that the tone of Gaywood's question made plausible.

Gideon's scowl deepened as he answered. "I'm delighted that Gilly will be back in town, but mourning the loss of another good friend to matrimony." This sentiment received hoots of approval from the mostly bachelor company, as Gideon continued with a slight sneer marring his handsome face. "Bad enough to be leg-shackled, but all the worse when it's to some poor dab of a female with nothing but her family connections to recommend her."

Gaywood giggled despite the implied insult to his sister, but Tom looked up sharply. Despite Gideon's size and present ill humor, he was not deterred from picking up the cudgels in Phoebe's defense. "Pardon me, Captain Ware," Tom's deliberate voice cut through the masculine laughter, "but if you are referring to the former Miss Marlowe, you mistake the matter. It's a love match."

"Is it, now?" Gideon's deep voice was patently skeptical. "And who are you, my young cub, to be so deep in Salford's confidence?"

Tom held his ground, despite the insult. "I'm Tom Orde, sir. I've been staying with Salford these last few weeks. And Phoebe is dear to me, like a sister." Tom could not help glancing at the craven Gaywood as he spoke.

"Orde? I'd heard you were Salford's houseguest." Gideon's voice was now interested and even faintly amused. "I suppose Salford's tastes must have changed since our school days. It appears that I misunderstood the situation - please, accept my apologies."

Tom stammered an acceptance, grateful that the dim lighting of the tavern concealed his flushed face. He had never thought that anyone would put _that_ construction on his friendship with Sylvester!

Gideon was now smiling, albeit bitterly and with sad eyes, as he raised his tankard. "I stand corrected by Mr. Orde. Let me propose a toast to Salford and his bride and to true love and marriage, which so rarely are found together."

As glasses clinked, Tom felt a sudden, sharp desire to be home, where his parents had combined true love and marriage for more than two decades, where his father's gruff scolds were always tempered by a deep and abiding affection for his only son, where his mother's cooking held more allure than the fine cuisine prepared by Salford's temperamental _artiste_ of a chef, and where one could walk outside or take a ride without choking on the sooty air. Even his country misdeeds were more innocuous than those he committed in London. Truly, there was truly no comparison between a pint or three too many at the local pub and the burn of blue ruin in a seedy London tavern, and Tom would any day take an honest roll in the hay with a lusty farmer's daughter over a furtive coupling with a lady of fashion and the ever-present concern that a husband or servant would burst into the bedroom. Tom decided he had acquired more than enough town bronze and resolved to post back to Shropshire the very next day.

Caught up in his own reverie, and with his senses slightly blurred by the strength of the rum punch being prepared to Captain Ware's specifications, Tom was surprised to hear a name he recognized in the midst of a stirring tale of crime and adventure being related by the captain. Perhaps he had misheard, but the name was a distinctive one.

"Did you say Swithin Liversedge?" He blurted out.

"Indeed I did," said Gideon, with a certain grim humor. "The greatest rogue I have ever met yet unhung. Be wary of him, Orde, if you ever make the Grand Tour and stop in Strasbourg!"

Tom stared at him, eyes wide in horror. "But he's not in Strasbourg. Liversedge was just hired as Edmund Rayne's tutor."

Gideon, who was somewhat immune to the effects of his own punch, was quick on the uptake. "Today would be the perfect day for a kidnapping. With the wedding, no one will notice that Edmund is missing for hours. Swithin could arrange to have Salford pay the ransom in Calais, away from English authorities, or he might be planning to approach Sir Nugent as the easier mark." Tom, reflecting on the strained relationship between Nugent and his stepson, was worried that Nugent - unlike Gideon - might actually agree pay to ensure that Edmund never returned.

"Will you help me?" Despite having just met Captain Ware, Tom felt that he would be a formidable ally, given his impressive physique, quick intelligence, and air of command.

"Of course. I have a score to settle with the old rascal." Gideon raked over their companions with a jaundiced eye. "None of this lot will be of any use until they sober up. You and I had best go alone."

Outside the tavern, Gideon quickly hailed a hansom. "Fotherby House," he directed the driver curtly. Tom was surprised that their direction was not Bow Street, but Gideon quickly explained. "We'll look like perfect fools if they haven't left yet, and the servants may know where they went." But upon their arrival, the butler confirmed that Liversedge and Edmund had departed in a hansom cab a mere half-hour before, to parts unknown.

Gideon was dismayed as they walked down the steps leading from Fotherby House to the waiting hack, worriedly listing the many possibilities: "Liversedge may have a rathole here in London, he could have hired a chaise from any number of posting houses, there are at least a dozen stage coaches leaving London each hour, he might have some private conveyance - ”

Tom interrupted with a grim smile. "He's in for a nasty surprise. Edmund gets wretchedly carriage-sick in anything other than a curricle or phaeton, and Liversedge won't dare to travel in an open vehicle."

"Poor little mite," muttered Gideon sympathetically. "I get horridly seasick myself unless I'm in the fresh air."

"Edmund's the same. He nearly cashed in his chips crossing to France because his mother insisted on keeping him in a cabin, but he was fine coming back with Salford because he stayed on deck."

Tom had a sudden flash of insight. "That's it! Liversedge has taken him by steamboat."

Tom explained further, in answer to Gideon's skeptical look. "Edmund was chattering on yesterday about how excited he is to travel by steamboat. Liversedge will be able to get him on board without any protest, and once they are in Margate, he can hire a boat or hide out in the vicinity."

Gideon, now convinced, commanded the driver to the docks, with all possible speed. The man rose to the challenge and Tom and Gideon were rewarded upon arrival at the sight of the Margate steamer, still swaying gently at its moorings. Edmund's golden curls gleamed brightly in the late September sunshine as he waved gaily from his spot on the rail to all passerbys, with Liversedge standing next to him, looking smug at the success of his plan.

Gideon, left to his devices, would have raced up the gangplank to apprehend him and retrieve Edmund. Tom, however, was not confident that the ship's crew and captain would regard two inebriated gentlemen as better guardians than a respectable tutor, and was concerned that Liversedge could convince them that any story of a kidnapping was nonsense. So Tom, relying on past experience in attempting to thwart Edmund's abduction, had outlined a better plan, with which Gideon had reluctantly agreed.

With Gideon concealed by the cab, Tom boarded the ship and approached Edmund and his tutor. "Mr. Liversedge, I am delighted to have found you, and in the nick of time!" That was a genuine statement, and Tom's anxiety and relief were equally authentic, but the rest of Tom's speech was a carefully crafted tissue of lies. In a low voice, pitched for Swithin's ears alone, Tom explained that Lady Ianthe had taken a fall and begun to bleed. The eminent Sir Henry Halford had been summoned, along with her own physician, and both practitioners agreed that only the presence of her son could calm her present hysteria and prevent further injury.

As Swithin listened, his expression gradually shifted from suspicion, to annoyance, and then to a genial concern. Lady Ianthe's accident would cause a temporary delay in his plans, but would make her all the more frantic and insistent on paying an extortionate ransom for her son's safe return. "My dear Orde, of course we must disembark. Poor Lady Ianthe needs the comfort of this dear lad in her time of tribulation."

Tom watched with grudging admiration as Liversedge deftly persuaded Edmund off the boat. Swithin followed his charge down the gangplank, as unsuspecting as a newborn lamb, with Tom behind him. Liversedge's feet had barely touched the shore when Gideon pounced from the shadows of the cab and pinioned his arms behind him. "Now I've got you!"

"Let go of Mr. Liversedge, you bully!" Gideon grunted in pain as Edmund kicked him in the shin, but did not loosen his grip.

Tom grabbed Edmund by the shoulders to prevent any further assault. "Mr. Liversedge is a bad man, Edmund. The Runners are after him."

Edmund looked up at his tutor, profound respect dawning in his eyes. "Really and truly, sir?"

Liversedge looked pointedly at Tom and Gideon before responding to the child. "Indeed, young Edmund, but it is all a misunderstanding." Tom and Gideon, respecting that pointed look, refrained from contradicting him.

"Mr. Orde," Swithin addressed him with dignity, despite the circumstances. "If you would be so kind as to extract them, there are two tickets for the steamboat in my breast pocket. There is no reason for Edmund to be deprived of his trip while Captain Ware and I work out this misunderstanding."

Gideon nodded at Tom. "Go on. I can handle the old villain from here."

And so Tom and Edmund raced up the gangplank, the last two passengers to board as the steamboat hooted its departure.

* * *

Some few weeks later, Swithin Liversedge found himself taking a boat trip of a far different nature than his anticipated excursion to Margate, on a prison ship bound for Botany Bay. He had been fortunate to cheat the gallows, for kidnapping was a capital offense, but nothing could be proven against him. Sir Nugent had given him permission to take Edmund on the steamboat, after all. However, Swithin had been unable to explain away the false letter of reference, and thus was convicted of forgery and sentenced to transportation.

In the fetid dimness of the hold, Liversedge gnashed his teeth at the perfidy of Tom Orde. Who would have thought that such an apparently honest fellow could have so thoroughly tricked him? With a flash of insight, he realized that Orde had been able to lie so effectively, when forced to it, precisely because he was a fundamentally decent and truthful young man. Swithin, who was not one to harbor a grudge or bemoan his fate, mentally tipped his hat to young Orde, wished him well in his endeavors, and turned to the clear-eyed consideration of his own future.

As Liversedge glanced around his crowded confines, he was struck by pathetic nature of his fellow convicts. These were not hardened, violent criminals, for those men (and the rare dame) found themselves swinging outside Newgate. Rather, they were pickpockets, petty thieves and swindlers - many of them little more than boys who had elected to steal rather than starve. And on the other side of the partition that divided the hold, the female prisoners were much the same, although many of them had committed no crime other than prostitution, of which they themselves were the only real victims.

Swithin's heart was wrung with an unaccustomed compassion, for he had at least enjoyed nearly five decades in God's green England before being called to account for his crimes. And, while he was engaging in honest reflection, he would be the first to acknowledge that transportation was no more (indeed, it was far less) than he deserved. The same considerations did not apply to these other transportees, almost all of whom were less than half his age and nowhere near his equal in wrongdoing. Really, Liversedge thought sympathetically, all that most of these young lads and lasses had needed was a helping hand and a fresh start, not the strict application of harsh English criminal law.

At least theoretically, transportation gave convicts a chance at an honest life once they had concluded their sentences, but he wondered how his fellow transportees, almost all of them London-born, would adapt to the harsh climate and rural demands of the penal colony. With his chin in his cupped hand, Swithin thought hard and began to plan. What they really needed, these young people, was someone with the experience to guide them, the cunning to mold them, and the ambition to form them into a society where, unlike England, men and woman would be valued for their cleverness and their accomplishments, not their rank. In other words, someone like himself . . .

_Epilogue: While the records of the penal colonies of New South Wales are sketchy, it appears that Liversedge was emancipated within two years of his arrival. By 1822, tax rolls show that one "S. Liversedge" was a tax-paying "merchant of wool and other goods," and, knowing what we do of Swithin, we can safely assume that his tax liabilities did not reflect the full extent of his prosperity._

_In 1825, Liversedge was the seventh member appointed by to the New South Wales Legislative Council by the governor, Major-General Thomas Brisbane. Curiously, there is a letter from the Duke of Sale among the Brisbane papers recommending Liversedge to the Council based on his "intelligence, ambition, shrewd knowledge of human nature, and compassion for the less fortunate." The letter, tellingly, omits any mention of honesty. Swithin served on the Council for more than thirty-five years, into his eighth decade._

_Between 1852 and 1855, Liversedge, as a respected elder statesman, was instrumental in the negotiation and drafting of the New South Wales Constitution. The document as written provided for significant autonomy from the English monarchy; it also incorporated a generous pension provision for Swithin and his fellow Council members._

_When he died at the venerable age of ninety-nine, Liversedge was a noted philanthropist and left half of his considerable fortune towards the establishment of a foundling hospital in Sydney._


End file.
